Guys, Lies & Alibis

by Kimberly Reid

  “The other day I saw Golden driving the same rental car y’all kidnapped me in, so I knew you were back.”

  “Kidnap? That’s harsh, not to mention inaccurate. Well, not completely accurate.”

  Neither of us speak for a moment, until he says, “Why do you suppose they call it a bodega?”

  “Huh?” His question is not at all what I expected after the lull in our conversation.

  “Bodega,” Cisco says, nodding toward the store across the street. “I haven’t been in Denver very long, but they don’t call it that out here. It’s more an east-coast term.”

  Either Cisco doesn’t realize it or he’s feeding me what he wants me to know. He just told me about twice as much as I knew about him before today.

  “Mr. Perez moved here from New York. He’s Dominican. Not every person in Colorado named Perez is from Mexico.”

  “No need to get touchy about it.”

  “I’m not. It just seems to me that an observant, undercover cop working this corner for months ought to know that much about the regulars. But you probably weren’t waiting here for me to give you the cultural history of my little section of Center Street, so what do you want?”

  “That’s what I like about you, Chanti. Always to the point. You’re smart and you know what time it is around here.”

  “So you do want something from me.”

  “Yes. I want you to be my confidential informant.”

  I jump up from the bench and look around. I know we’re alone, but just the idea of anyone in the Heights thinking I’d agree to be a snitch makes me nervous.

  “You must be crazy.”

  “You’ve helped me before.”

  “Not knowingly, or willingly. That’s why I used the word kidnapped.”

  “Your connections around the neighborhood—Donnell’s people, your juvenile delinquent friend MJ—can help me take down my rival in South Denver Heights.”

  “Let me guess—another dealer?”

  “He’s looking into other ways to make money now that Denver has legalized recreational marijuana.”

  Cisco definitely sounds like a cop. Who else would say it like that?

  “Weed isn’t the only game in town,” I remind him.

  “It is for this guy. Other dealers have a lock on the meth and crack business around here, and his record means he can’t get into the legal marijuana trade.”

  “But this dealer isn’t actually your rival because you’re a cop. With the DEA, right?”

  “Nice try. I’m not telling you who I work for.”

  “Then I’m not going to help you,” I say, pacing the six feet of space inside the shelter.

  “So if I told you who signs my paycheck, you’d help?”

  “No, because not only won’t I be a snitch, but I’ve got my own case to investigate.”

  Cisco laughs, but only for a second because I shoot him a mean look.

  “Maybe I can help with your investigation,” he says. “We can help each other.”

  Cisco is quiet for a second and just watches me pace, my arms crossed. I consider his offer. No doubt he could help me with Marco’s problem, but I realize I don’t exactly know what Marco’s problem is, other than people always trying to beat him up and that he’s in on something shady with a boy who’s got everyone at Langdon Prep believing he’s a badass. I’m thinking there’s nothing in that scenario that would interest a DEA agent or that I can’t handle myself. So I blurt out the other problem I never imagined I’d share with anyone, much less Cisco.

  “I’m looking for my father.”

  “Did he go missing?”

  “Yeah, about sixteen years and nine months ago. I’ve never met him and I’ve got nothing to go on. I don’t even know his name. At least, I don’t know if the name I’ve been given is right.”

  “Evans?”

  “That’s my mother’s maiden name.”

  “Surely she knows his name.”

  “Of course. But she’s never in a sharing mood when it comes to the topic of my father, even though she knows a lot more about him than she’s willing to tell.”

  “Look, I know who your mother is, that she’s a cop.”

  “Of course you do,” I say, making a mental note of how many people now know Lana’s secret thanks to me: MJ, Marco, and now Cisco. The list is growing long, but at least they’re all on the good side and Lana’s on desk-duty.

  “If she wanted to find your father, she could. Maybe she feels it’s best if—”

  “I don’t need an analysis of my family’s dysfunction. Can you help me or not?”

  Cisco stands, making the bus shelter suddenly feel crowded. Or maybe it’s the conversation we’re having that makes me feel like the Plexiglas walls are closing in.

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “If I’m going to be a snitch, I need more than maybe,” I say before leaving the shelter, but then I turn back to him. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

  “Yes, unless you have something else you want to discuss.”

  “I mean before you disappeared, when you came to my porch and I was with my boyfriend. You said we needed to talk and then you just took off. I was wondering for a month what that was all about.”

  “Yes, this was it,” Cisco says. “You’d better get home now, out of the rain.”

  The sky had been threatening all day, and now sleet was suddenly falling in sheets. It would probably change to snow before I walked the block home. I raise the hood of my coat and pretend not to hear Cisco when he yells after me, “Just consider it, will you?”

  *

  All through dinner, Lana tried to fool me into thinking she wasn’t going to ask about what happened over the weekend. She talked about work and how she thought she had a good chance of getting a homicide assignment, at least temporarily. She told me about Papa finally giving in to my grandmother and taking a cruise, despite his fear of boats even though he’s never actually been on a boat. But I knew it was coming because she ordered pizza. My mother is not a fan of delivery since she fancies herself an excellent cook. The only reason she’d call Anthony’s and order a pie with all my favorite toppings is because she’s trying to soften me up. So it’s no surprise when she asks about Marco.

  “What about him?”

  “I’ve given you some space like you asked, but now I want to know what really happened Friday night.”

  “Huh?”

  “Why did you steal my car and go running off in the night?”

  “It wasn’t quite that dramatic, Mom,” I say, refilling my glass with iced tea and trying to play nonchalant.

  “So set me straight.”

  “We had a fight and I felt bad leaving it the way we did, so I went over to his place to talk.”

  “He had a fight all right, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t do that to his face.”

  “How do you know his face . . . oh, no you didn’t, Mom.”

  “Oh yes I did. Before my stakeout yesterday morning, I spent an hour in front of your little boyfriend’s place. Well, a few houses down. With binoculars. But I got a good look at him when he left for school. Those cuts and bruises looked only a few days old.”

  “But Mom,” I say, hoping it sounds like a genuine question instead of giving sass, which is what I’m sure she’ll call it anyway, “isn’t that really Marco’s business?”

  “If you were with him when he got that face, it’s my business. Were you?”

  “It was from the basketball game. Galloway always plays dirty, and Marco took a couple of elbows to the face, that’s all.”

  “Looked like he took some fists to the face, and more than a couple. Playing dirty is one thing, but that looked like assault. I played guard in high school and even the toughest cheats never roughed me up like that.”

  “It’s different with boys.”

  “NBA enforcers don’t go that hard. The refs would never let that happen in a high school game.”

  In case you think having a cop for a parent is no
different than any other parent, let this conversation right here set you straight. Your accountant dad may leave his spreadsheets at the office, but a cop is on the job 24/7. Even when she’s your mom and ordered your favorite pizza for dinner. Sometimes it kind of sucks.

  “It was just some guy stuff. Guys fight.”

  “The two of you have been in trouble before and didn’t tell me until it was too late. Marco is a nice boy, but if something is going on, I don’t want him dragging you into it.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “We aren’t talking about me. I’m the only grown person in the room, so I get to ask the questions.”

  “Marco isn’t dragging me into anything.”

  “Now that I actually believe. More likely, you’re trying to butt into something that isn’t any of your business. It always gets you into trouble.”

  How does she always know everything?

  “I have to tell you every detail of my life but you can hold out on me. That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “There is no fair until you’re paying your own mortgage,” Lana says, putting another slice of pizza on my empty plate. “And life still won’t be fair. The situation with your father is different. Not telling you everything is safer for you, at least until I actually know everything.”

  “Why is everyone always trying to protect me? Haven’t I shown I can solve a case?”

  “You’re excellent at solving cases, it’s the danger involved in doing it that worries me. Have you forgotten you’ve always needed some help with that part?”

  I don’t say anything, and instead start on my third slice.

  “Well, I haven’t. Marco, MJ, members of my vice squad, me.”

  Good thing I never told her about Golden’s excellent shooting skills, or she’d have to add her to the list. Actually, if Lana knew that whole story, I’d probably be in a boarding school on some remote mountain where the headmaster owes Lana a favor.

  “So you’re saying when you know everything, then you’ll tell me?”

  Lana takes too long to answer, even if she finally says, “Yes.”

  What she really means is maybe, maybe not. If I ever want to know the truth, I may have to find it myself. I’m glad I didn’t reject Cisco’s offer.

  Chapter 17

  If no one wants to tell me what’s going on, I’ll have to find out for myself, like I always do. I’ll talk to Cisco about my missing father case after school, but right now I’m spending study hall watching Brent Carmody’s every move instead of doing some last-minute cramming for a chem exam. Not once does he pull out his little black book, and I can’t say I blame him. If Ms. Hemphill caught him, despite whatever story he told her when they stepped outside the room yesterday, she really would believe the fake book was his, even if the information in the two books is different. Then their meeting would be moving down to Headmistress Smythe’s office.

  Not only that, Brent probably suspects someone in the class punked him with the fake book, which means he knows someone is trying to get to it, or at least figure out why it’s so important to him. After that look he gave me following his hallway meeting with Ms. Hemphill, I’m guessing he suspects that someone is me. If my theory is right that the book has something to do with Marco, it wouldn’t be a stretch for Brent to assume Marco put me up to the whole thing. So it’s probably a bad idea to do what I’m about to do. But when has that ever stopped me?

  When the bell rings, instead of going to my own locker, I follow Brent to his, being sure to stay a few yards and several kids behind him. Fortunately his locker is in sight of the alcove leading to the girls bathroom, giving me a place to linger without looking too suspicious. The hall is full of kids changing classes, providing extra cover. Instead of opening his locker, he goes inside the classroom right next to it. What’s he doing in there? Whatever it is, he didn’t do it for long because he’s back thirty seconds later. Brent digs around in his locker and his backpack but so far, the little black book hasn’t made an appearance.

  I’m about to give up and try to get to my own locker and next period without needing a late pass when a kid walks up to Brent. His back is to me, but I suspect he’s a basketball player given his height. There’s one thing Mildred was right about. Brent’s Langdon Prep circle is small, just athletes and the two henchmen he used to jump Marco in the gym, and they’re on the football team. Or were, until the coach kicked them off last season. I was able to get that much out of Annette.

  I don’t have to wonder about the new kid’s story for very long. Though his back is mostly turned to me and everyone else in the hallway, providing cover, I see enough to guess what’s going on. They make an exchange like the one I saw between Brent and a Milton Academy kid at the game Friday night, then the Knights player continues down the hall. No conversation passes between them. The difference today is I’m going to find out what Brent’s selling. I follow the guy out of Main Hall’s entrance.

  As soon as he steps outside, he pauses on the top step and pulls up the hood of his coat. I come this close to running smack into him. I just stand there, hoping he doesn’t sense me behind him and trying to think up an explanation for stalking him in case he does. Really wish I had a plan before following him. I’m about to go back inside the building when I hear the sound of him unzipping his coat, and then the flick of a lighter. He turns around, shielding the flame from the wind as he cups his hands and tries to light a joint. I guess that’s what Brent passed him during their exchange.

  “Wassup?”

  I don’t say anything because I’m thrown by the port wine stain on his right hand.

  “Oh, um, I thought you were someone else.”

  He smiles. “You know exactly who I am. See if you can talk some sense into your friend if you want to keep him safe,” he says, pronouncing every S in that sentence with a lisp.

  *

  After the seventh period bell and the chem exam I’m sure just put a dent in my GPA, I hurry out the door hoping to catch Marco before he heads for practice. I spot him further down the hall, and follow him until I catch up just outside the gym, which required me to jog halfway so I start the conversation slightly out of breath. And a little ticked off since I don’t jog for anything.

  “What’s wrong, Chanti?” Marco asks, looking worried.

  “Nothing. I just need to take PE more seriously.”

  “Well, I’ve got practice, so . . .”

  “You can’t avoid me forever. I know you want to keep me out of this, but I’ve already figured out what Brent is up to—his little business, the hallway deals, the money trading hands. I know he sent the guys you keep insisting are muggers. They were the men waiting at Brent’s car Friday night, grown men, not high school kids. They beat you up because you owe Brent money. You can stop denying all of that now.”

  “Not so loud,” Marco says, nodding at one of the players who walks by on the way into the gym. “How did you figure it all out?”

  “Hello? That’s what I do. Instead of lying to me, protecting me, and avoiding me, can we just fix this?”

  “I told you. It’s my trouble to work out.”

  “We’re from the Heights, Marco. This ain’t nothing but a thing. I have a little cash in my savings account. Let’s just pay him and be done with it.” I lean in and whisper, “If it isn’t just about the money, I’ve got people on both sides of the law who would shut Brent down for sport. Seriously, I do.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Marco smiles at me for the first time in days, but his smile quickly fades when Brent walks by. He gives me a menacing look, behind Marco’s back.

  “You may have figured out a lot of the story,” Marco says, “But you’re wrong on one count.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t just about Brent. That’s why I want you to let me handle it.”

  “I’m not splitting up with you over this. Not again.”

  Marco surprises me when he gives me a sweet, lingering kiss. He seems
almost sad when he finally breaks apart from me.

  “You got that part wrong, too. I never wanted us to break up. We just need to take a break, that’s all. I wouldn’t let them come between us forever. It’s just for a little while, to keep you safe.”

  “But Marco—”

  “Just a few more days,” he says, leaving me and heading into the gym. “I promise.”

  If Marco makes a promise, I trust that he’ll keep it. But I don’t plan to wait a few more days to find out what he isn’t telling me.

  Chapter 18

  What Marco said about me getting one part wrong has me thinking he’s right. Those men from the fake mugging don’t work for Brent. He works for them. That’s probably why that one guy was up here today, checking in on his Langdon Prep franchise, though it doesn’t explain why he’d buy a joint from Brent. You’d think he’d be supplying Brent, not buying from him. I’ll have to think on that one, but the new priority is Marco’s safety. Now that he’s practically told me Brent wasn’t behind his beating, that the Smith & Wesson–packing thugs are in charge, this thing has just gotten way more serious.

  When Brent walked by a minute ago, he didn’t go inside the gym but went around to the back of it. I follow him, hoping the hallways aren’t the only place he conducts his business. Maybe Mildred was right that Brent is more dealer than lender. If Brent’s still back there and I can get a picture of his next drug deal, it might be enough evidence to take to my mother. This has gone beyond Marco handling things on his own, or even with help from me. If going to Lana gets Marco in trouble with Headmistress Smythe or with the police, I figure his getting expelled or arrested is better than getting dead.

  When I reach the back of the gym, no one’s there so I turn around, only to find Brent standing in front of me.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I should be asking you that,” Brent says. “Why did you follow me back here?”

  “Follow you? I was just . . . looking for something I thought I’d lost. No one’s interested in you.”

  “You know, you’re really becoming a problem.”